


Three Paper Planes

by warriorpoet



Category: Fake News RPF
Genre: Community: fakenews_fanfic, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-27
Updated: 2008-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-11 20:47:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warriorpoet/pseuds/warriorpoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve's memories of one of his last nights in New York start to get him down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Paper Planes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bessemerprocess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bessemerprocess/gifts).



> Written for bessemerprocess for FNFF Secret Santa 2008, from the prompt: _"I've watched you fly on paper wings halfway around the world / until they burned up in the atmosphere and sent you spiraling down / landing somewhere far from here with no one else around"_

"We are a mid-life crisis waiting to happen." 

Jon has to shout so that Stephen can hear him. Stephen's driving and the top is down, so there are two strikes against them. 

"I swear it's the only car they had left." 

His lips are curled into the barest hint of a smile, and Jon has trouble believing him. 

"I don't -- shit, can we at least put the roof up? We must look like complete assholes." 

Stephen's wearing sunglasses, so Jon can't see it, but he knows that those dark eyes just rolled. 

"Can't. There's nowhere to pull over."

"Just go over onto the shoulder."

"That's only for emergencies, Jon."

"Jesus fucking Christ."

Stephen grins in triumph as Jon slouches in his seat so that his head is barely above the window line and his knees are uncomfortably propped on the dash. 

He sits like that all the way to Steve's.

*****

The only thing that's really changed about Steve is that now he has a beach house.

He's embarrassed by it, that hasn't changed, and he shrugs apologetically while Stephen and Jon are prowling around the open plan living-dining-kitchen and gawping at the picture windows that frame the Pacific. 

"The kids wanted to live by the beach, y'know? So... this is really just a 'sometimes' house." 

"I understand that, but... _wow_." Jon stares out at the ocean and shakes his head. 

"Yeah, man, you could've got a nice little trailer and illegally parked it on any old patch of sand. This is really overdoing it." Stephen raids Steve's fridge like he always has. Sure, it's been years, but he figures that a different house doesn't mean different rules. 

Steve takes the beer bottles away from him and nudges him toward the living room. "Let me. You're making me look like a bad host." 

"Well, you _are_ ," Stephen mutters, grinning, pulling Jon down to sit beside him on the couch. It's soft and voluminous and like a fluffy cloud wrapped in cow hide. 

Jon sits back like he's about to put his feet up on the coffee table, but it's heavily polished wood, almost reflective, and he knows he'll get one of those patented Nancy-Walls-withering-glares if he scuffs it, so he sits forward instead and takes the beer that Steve offers. "So... why are we here, anyway?" 

"Such a deep question, Jon. You always were a great thinker," Steve muses as he sits across from them. 

Jon smirks. "Why did you ask Stephen and me to come to Los Angeles, to your home, to your side?" 

Steve shrugs. "I just miss you guys. I wanted to get you on my home turf for once." 

"But, and please, I hope I'm not being presumptuous, but --" 

Stephen cuts Jon off and gets to the point. "You sounded upset when you called." 

"No. I wasn't... I'm fine now."

*****

It had been a slow day. Long wait times between setups, and it was late in the schedule, so the cabin fever was starting to set in.

Ed had been throwing paper planes at Rainn's head for most of the afternoon. All he'd say was, "Well, it's your fault for being such a good target," and then pitch another one. 

It made Steve think of Stephen. 

For as long as Steve had known him, Stephen had been folding up intricate paper planes when he was nervous or bored or trying to think. Once, Steve had asked him why he did it, and Stephen had shrugged and said there was probably some deep psychological reason, that it was his way of exerting control over a symbol of the thing that had brought chaos into his life. And then he'd laughed and said, "Fuck it, it's just fun to throw them at people". 

So, Steve thought of that, and it had made him smile as he watched Ed fold up the next bomber. "Remember how good Stephen was with these?" 

"Colbert? No. Really? I never saw him do it." Ed frowned as he made sharp, heavy creases. 

Steve laughed, suddenly remembering. "Oh, right. He probably quit after the night --" 

Ed looked up when Steve cut himself off. "The night what?"

"He, um. He kind of smacked Jon in the face once. I think he gave it up after that."

Ed laughed and Steve joined in on the construction. He was kind of rusty, his creases a little askew, his finished plane nowhere near as crisp and sleek as Ed's. 

Steve launched his craft. It banked sharply to the left and twirled back to earth, bouncing off the edge of a desk. 

"Wow. You suck at this, Steve." 

He sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, I know."

*****

"I can't believe you're _actually_ leaving. Again," Stephen had said, not for the first time.

And Steve had shrugged it off with a, "Yeah, well. It probably won't last. Again." Also, not for the first time. 

Jon had been stretched out on the floor with his feet propped up on Steve's legs. "Guys, we're talking in circles here. Steve, you're going to do great. Stephen, you're going to be okay. Everything will be great and okay and... and..." He sniffled dramatically. "And we'll always have last summer. Oh god, I'm gonna miss you!" He trailed off into wordless wails and sobs, which quickly turned into laughter when Steve poked the arch of his foot and Stephen threw a pillow at his stomach. 

When he had been reduced to a rate of one wheezing giggle every five seconds, Steve shoved his feet away and told him to sit up. 

"Do you mind if I'm serious for a moment?"

"Uh-oh." Jon grimaced as he moved to sit on the couch next to Steve.

"Shoot," Stephen said.

"If anything does come out of this... hell, even if _nothing_ comes out of it other than _maybe_ another bout of steady work, I know I owe you for it. Both of you. I couldn't be doing this without you, and..." Steve trailed off, staring down at his hands, fingers drumming on his knees. 

"Aw, c'mon, man. You don't -" 

"No, Jon, I do. I really do. I couldn't be doing this without you and I don't know how I'm _going_ to do it without you," he finished. 

"Stop it," Jon muttered. His arm went around Steve's shoulders, their heads bumping together. 

"God. Steve. Look. You're making Jon cry. You're such an asshole." 

Steve had just looked at Stephen in that understanding way of his until his eyes narrowed into a scowl before that understanding crap could go on for too long. Stephen smiled and added his arm to Steve's shoulders, just below Jon's, and tugged him closer, barely managing to sandwich Steve into a hug before Jon could jump up from his seat and head for the door. 

"Where are you going?" Stephen shouted after him. 

"We need to get drunk!" was the distant reply.

Stephen gave Steve one last pat on the shoulder and extricated himself to go and sit behind Jon's desk. Steve gave him a questioning look and Stephen sheepishly grinned and shrugged and said, "Okay, okay. It was getting too honest and I was uncomfortable. You caught me." 

"Now I'm worried you're going to remember me as this platitude spouting introspection machine." 

Stephen poked through a stack of discarded script pages, all the jokes that hadn't made the cut during the week. "Oh, no, Steve, that's _never_ going to happen."

Steve cocked his head. "I'm getting the feeling that maybe I should be insulted...?" 

Stephen laughed as he started to work folding one of the pages. "Probably." 

Steve smiled and let his head fall against the back of the couch, staring up at the ceiling. There was a bright yellow spitball caked onto the plaster by the light fixture, and scuff marks from the mini basketball that Jon liked to throw. He chuckled. "You know, I can't believe I'm actually leaving either." 

"I always told Jon to get you and keep you happy as long as possible. I knew we wouldn't have you here for long. He probably never said anything to you, but so many times he's told me that he expects to get in here in the morning and get a call from you saying you've got a better offer and you're never coming back." Stephen held up his powder blue jet for inspection. "You're gonna take off, man."

To illustrate his point, he launched the craft with a practiced movement, giving it the right amount of height and turn to curve out the door and into the hall. But Jon was on his way, coming back and declaring victory with a bottle of champagne and three coffee mugs, and then there was the crumpling thunk of paper on skin. 

Jon yelped. Steve snickered. Stephen jumped up from his chair.

"Shit, sorry. Are you okay?" He took the bottle and the mugs out of Jon's hands before he could drop them.

Jon scowled and rubbed his face. "No, it's okay. It's not like I need my eyes or anything."

"Jon, I'm sorry." Stephen suddenly shook his head emphatically, a flash of panic in his eyes. "This is a bad sign. Steve. You can't go now. This is a bad sign."

"Since when are you so superstitious?" Steve asked as he took the mugs from Stephen.

Stephen shot him a desperate look. Steve just sighed and put his arms around his friend and murmured, "Stephen, cut it out," and Stephen clung to him like the ship had sprung a leak and he was too tired to keep bailing water and Steve was the only life preserver he had.

Jon wedged his way in between them and Stephen and Steve opened their arms to him. He rested his forehead on Steve's shoulder and gently rubbed Stephen's back and held it for a beat before he cleared his throat.

"Um... actually, I was just trying to get to the champagne bottle again."

They had laughed and pulled away, and as Jon shook the bottle and tried to pop the cork, Steve thought that maybe Stephen was right, maybe it was a sign, that maybe he should just stay, because this was a place where he fit. When they were covered in champagne spray and toasting each other, he decided that it was stupid to think like that, that he was just getting cold feet and making excuses. But as he drank from his coffee cup full of bubbles, he couldn't stop a tiny spark of doubt from gnawing away at him.

But then, when Steve woke up the next afternoon in a hotel suite and he was wearing Jon's boxer shorts and his arm was numb because Stephen was asleep on it and Jon was sitting on the end of the bed watching TV with the sound turned off, he couldn't remember having been worried about anything. Ever.

*****

Later on, on that afternoon when Steve had thrown paper planes with Ed, he sat in Michael Scott's office in the background of a master shot, waiting for his cue, and thought about that last night in New York. And how when he'd been away for months, he'd tried so hard to find any time he could get back east, saying he just wanted to help out with the show.

Stephen and Jon were always waiting to welcome him back in their own special way.

He ended up putting off leaving the show until the fact that he'd already left became too hard to ignore.

He wondered what his friends were like with each other when he wasn't around. He wished that the thought never even had to enter his mind, that he could have stayed.

His mind wandered. He missed his cue. He apologized profusely and dragged his mind back to work. It was like trying to swim in quicksand.

The second he stepped off set, he called his friends and asked them if they could come to Los Angeles.

They happily said yes.

*****

The sun is almost gone and there's a chilled breeze coming off the water, but the sand is still warm under their backs.

The three men lie on the beach in companionable quiet, listening to the constant beat of the waves.

It breaks when Stephen says flatly, "I think I have sand in my ass."

Jon snickers. "Yeah, this wasn't a good idea."

"I think it's in my socks, too."

"But, of course, you had to talk about your ass first."

"Well, I know it's _your_ favorite topic of conversation."

"Why the fuck did you wear your shoes on the beach anyway?"

Steve is happy to hear their playful bickering back-and-forth again. It's like his heart's own version of the white noise rhythm of the ocean. It can lull him to sleep if he lets it.

But they can't know that. So he gives them an exasperated sigh. "I really can't remember why I thought it was a good idea for you two to come here."

Stephen sits up, swiftly and suddenly serious. "And again, why exactly did you ask us to come here?"

Jon sits up too and they're both looking down, concerned and expectant, at Steve lying in between them. It's all too much, so Steve closes his eyes and shrugs.

"Isn't it enough that I just really miss you guys?" he says.

When Steve opens his eyes, he catches Stephen and Jon having one of their wordless eye-contact-conversations, those ones he used to be able to eavesdrop on, those ones he used to be able to participate in. But now he can't quite catch the meaning.

He closes his eyes again.

"Steve," Jon's voice cracks, and he coughs. "Steve, is there... I mean, do you want us to... are you --"

Stephen reaches over and lays his hand on Steve's chest. He looks down at him with a small smile and quirked eyebrows, and just like that, Steve remembers how to speak their silent language.

He smiles back at Stephen. "Hey, here's a question... do you two ever...? Y'know. When I'm not there?"

Stephen lies back down and shuffles closer until he can rest his head on Steve's shoulder. "A couple of times. Not really a regular thing."

Jon lies down and takes Steve's hand. "But we talked about you the whole time," he says with a smile.

Steve laughs, caught off guard. "That's probably more than I needed to know."

"You asked!" Jon cries.

"I didn't ask _that_!"

They go quiet again. When the sun is gone and the last of the warmth goes with it, they stand and brush the sand from each other's backs, and go back to the house.

*****

It's dark now, and they sit on the deck so they can hear the ocean and know for sure that it's still there.

Stephen sits on the floor with his head resting on Steve's knee, and when the wind ruffles Stephen's hair, Steve can't help himself. He lays his hand on Stephen's head, to help mess it up even more.

Stephen glances up at him with an amused spark in his eyes and a smile.

Jon is stretched out on the bench, his back resting against Steve's side, and flipping through a magazine. He stops and scrutinizes a page. 

"Hey," he says as he sits up little straighter and gently elbows Steve in the ribs. "Well, look who it is."

Steve glances over Jon's shoulder and makes a face when he sees his picture. "Ugh."

Stephen reaches up and gestures to Jon to let him see. 

"Nice shot," he says finally.

Steve makes a noncommittal sound.

Jon rolls his eyes and starts to speak, but Stephen gets there first.

"I know, he's worse than you sometimes."

"Exactly."

"Shut up," Steve murmurs, his heart not really in it.

"Fine. You know what? Let's do this." Jon tears the page out of the magazine and starts folding.

"Are you going to try to get back at me?" Stephen asks when he sees what Jon is doing.

Jon grins and holds up the plane he's made out of the magazine page. The wind catches it and bends the thin high-gloss paper wings. "I don't know how this is gonna hold up... Steve, don't take it personally if this doesn't work. It's not, like... It's not an omen or anything."

Stephen snorts. "Yeah, I guess that theory of mine didn't pan out too well."

"Well... maybe it was an omen of something," Steve says. "Just not anything that couldn't be fixed."

They stand at the deck railing and with a light touch, Jon lets it fly. The wind catches its wings just so, and the plane glides out over the beach for a second.

Stephen puts his arm around Steve and tugs on Jon's shirtsleeve. "C'mon. Let's go."

Before they can see their little paper plane get knocked off balance and spiral down to the sand below, the three turn away as one, and head for the bedroom.


End file.
